Because homeland is a sentiment that also attacks with the ferocity of passion and of the goals when he shouts: gol de Argentina. Or when it has celebrated each triumph of an athlete or Argentine box. Maradona, lionesses, Gabriela Sabbattini, Vilas, when they have highlighted our boys in basketball and in any discipline and that they have said with a contagious honour: I am Argentine. Or praise and complicity with the gambeta. Or glare by artists. By the literati. By all the sons of this homeland.
Patriots are too, of these times, that go with pans and make silent marches before so much outrage, to reason, as says the tango, which today, like yesterday, still intoxicated. And it is also homeland, when I do cakes fried in the days that it rains, as said it rained a May 25. And how I told dad and MOM, grandparents of my two children. And I do homeland when I serve the chocolate cupcakes and dulce de batata and Quince. Because dad was a Patriot in his own way. Going to work at two jobs per day to give you a healthy family to the Homeland. Because MOM was also patriotic caring, feeding, and providing a home to that worker for to do homeland with his way of being and doing in this country.
And it has put the rosettes in each grommet which stood opposite. And it has cooked patriotic details in white overalls and overcoats. And it even manufactured a flag, because not I could buy me, to teach me the colors of my homeland. And thrilled with the national anthem the first day of my school day, as I I was touched with the knot in her throat the first day of the national anthem intoned next to my children, in his early school days. And on the day of the pledge to the flag of my daughter. And the explanation for her that meant the day of the homeland, freedom and all those things that apply to us and we enter when we say and feel: I am Argentine and why: viva la patria, carajo!